


the harlot

by trilliananders



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Smut, Violence, victorian au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:08:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24387214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trilliananders/pseuds/trilliananders
Summary: harlots inspired au;one last run before shipping off steve rogers is brought to a brothel to love a woman in case of his untimely demise at war. he meets the reader, young and fresh, not yet tainted by the world they’d been born into. a torrid one night love affair that costs their mother greatly. a promise and years later they meet again, the reader resentful and distrustful. the charming, now captain rogers, seems as captivated in reader as ever. but it’s never meant to be. and you both know that.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Reader
Comments: 7
Kudos: 40





	1. one

The wiles of women. They were a trap for men, the bawdy, the harlots and succubi that taint husbands and sons with powdered skin and lips red as blood as if pricked on a rose’s thorns. The pink blush of their cheeks, draped fabric and perfectly coiffed white wigs. Their ribs crushed under the ties of a corset leaving bruises on their belly and hips. Small tight shoes that pinch their toes and a shiny penny shoved against the entrance of their womb to prevent pregnancy.

You could be one of those. You had potential. The kept woman of bureaucrats and bankers. In a home paid for them by the men who made the world turn.

“A beautiful girl you are.” Men would say. Their fingers tilting your chin up to gaze upon the craft of your Mother. They always called you beautiful. When you were a child and free, running through the streets in your patched skirt and ruddy knees. The grab of a man’s hand interrupted by your Pa.

A brawl or two for your protection, your Pa’s fists bloody and raw cracked on the jaw of a man trying to fondle his child in the street. Otherwise left alone. He wasn’t your birth father. The man who spewed you into your Ma’s belly you’d not a clue of. With this profession you can never be sure. Your Pa was a man who loves your Ma. They had a little boy together and they run the house that women sell their sex from.

The house you live in and have lived your entire life.

The only gain for hope in your Mother’s case, was to sell you to someone who would give you a good life. Better than a whore on the street, but not as good as a wife with a man to love and a man who loves you.

“You’ll never want for anything,” Your Mother would say, curling your hair around her fingers as she painted your lips, a soft pink. “You’ll be taken care of.” Pinching your cheeks for color. “And a man will not have control over what you own.”

You’d be kept on a salary. Like an employee in a home as part of the package. The goal of having a sweet little place in high society where you’d attend parties and drink and charm your way about in fine silks and a coy smile. One your Ma had you practice in the mirror. A gaze to bewitch me and have them chase your skirt all about town.

Your image was perfection. Hair in perfect curls and the flush of your skin against power pink fabric and a tightly bound corset, breasts pushed oh so innocently up. A tease for the body that they would have to pay to see.

Men love a blushing virgin.

A favorite you were. Taught piano, how to read and write. You learned card games and how to flirt with a glass of wine, your lips meeting the rim and peering up through your lashes at men who were drooling and waiting for their turn upstairs.

You played piano with a coy eye while the girls worked the room at parties. Watching a hand slip up a skirt, a drag into the dark hallway and the creaks of their beds through the floor.

And tonight was no different.

“Your bid is going soon.” Your Ma flit around the room, pulling a beautiful silk lavender gown and laying it before you, circling behind to tighten your corset. A free breath gone from your lungs, hands clutching the bed post as your breasts spilled upwards and your waist was synched tight. The wraps loosened on your curls, pinned in a bow away from your face. Innocent and sweet. A heavily jeweled necklace on your throat. A tight nude colored shoe and the dress was laid over your skin, soft and barely worn. “It’s a special occasion.” She reasoned.

You were to put on a face, shy and sweet, endearing. A group of men coming to the house for a party, special, and paid in advance. Men who would hold great standing off fighting in the King’s army. Men who would one day be those very men who make the world turn. Generals and servicemen alike. “A fine fit, I would say.” Bids for the sweet honey pot between your thighs.

You’d had offers when you were young as ten. But your Ma wouldn’t. “You’ll be better than I was.” Better than a young girl sold off and meant to please the perverts that prey on the young. “You’re worth more than that my sweet girl.” Her fingers would brush your cheek with affection. The love she felt for you palpable. The favoritism in her own blood opulent. How many pounds would be enough to sell your flesh for the very first time?

You were to be shy and sweet. Stick by her side as men approached and aimed to charm you upstairs. You watched as girls you knew and trusted, the ones you read the paper to and ones you’ve aided with pregnancy and illness, these girls nothing more than a hole to find solace in for the night. A night before leaving to risk their lives on some expedition for the King’s need for global power.

Some were handsome, charming, and one with a chipped tooth made you blush. But one by one they disappeared up the stairs and out of sight. Raucous moans and the slamming of headboards. You catch a thief in the kitchen.

“You’re not supposed to be in here.” A boy, or a man, his cap held in his hands as he worried the brim. He looks smart with his blonde hair back and tied neatly in a black bow at the nape of his neck. Not a mark on his uniform, the jacket open to his shirt underneath. He seems startled by you. His mouth parts, lips pink and a blush on his cheeks.

“I’m sorry, I—” He stands, “I uhm…” His hand reveals a fuzzy peach, missing a bite. It was the shine on his lips. You were unsure of what to do. This was the first time in your life that you had been truly alone with a man.

“You haven’t found your way upstairs.” A soldier who hadn’t found his way into the cunny of a girl before leaving tomorrow. “Isn’t that the point of even being here?”

“It wasn’t my choice, I uh—” He was naïve, it was sweet. Nervous. “I don’t know what I’m doing here if I’m honest.” You worry your bottom lip. In the light of the fire you could see how flushed he was, his fingers digging into the peach enough for the juice to run over his fingertips.

“Most men come here for sex.” To put it bluntly, he looks down at his shoes, scuffs them on the floor, then back at you. Your head tilted to the side, “Are you a virgin?” The way his mouth parts, his eyes widening. The answer was yes. You smile, soft and sweet. “Me too.” Leaving the doorway, you settle yourself at the kitchen table. “I’m Y/N.” The scoot of the chair back across from you as he sinks into the seat.

“I’m Steve.”

…

The fake moans. It’s what really gets him. The back arching, toe curling, screams. The vice of your heat on his cock. A familiar and rough tug and pull of your skin. His hands finding your flesh, gripping at whatever hold he could get. “You’re a jewel, a proper pearl among the sea of shit that is in my life.”

Alexander Pierce was a King’s man. Older with a wife who couldn’t be bothered and children older than you. He paid a pretty penny for your maidenhood. Your coy smile the charm you’d give his guests. He paid you well. Just what your Ma wanted. The mistress of a man with more money than you could ever spend in this lifetime.

Your life had changed from where it had been by such leaps and bounds that you couldn’t help but be grateful. Where people could see anyway. You were brought fabrics from China, intricate designed cloth from Spain. A row of shoes in your closet in each color you could possibly imagine. Dresses lavishly adorned with jewels. Pearls and rubies. Ribbon and lace.

“Tonight.” His fingers gripping your hair as his hips viciously slap against yours, “You will be proper and charming.” A grunt, “And you will make my guests feel welcome, no matter what I ask you to do,” The harsh rip of your hair, “You will do as I say.” Your scalp would be sore, ache as you pin your hair back to fit under the powdered wig you’d be wearing for the night. Your eyes more vacant than ever. Watery and tired.

You needed a drink.

You hardly ever got to see your Ma anymore. On occasion she would be allowed to call on you. If your schedule coordinated, she would see you out on your daily stroll, but she’d been wrong. Your contract didn’t give you freedom. It didn’t give you power. It didn’t give you control. It kept you wedged under Pierce’s heel. A pretty little ornament he would fuck while you would prey for his seed not to take root.

You wondered if it would have been better to be back home. Where your Ma and Pa were with Peter, your brother who must almost be a man by now. Ten years is a long time.

You bring the façade of life back to your eyes as he meets you in the mirror. His face powdered, but breeches still open. A smirk of satisfaction on his lips as he comes to brush down your cheek. “The pink lipstick.” A demand. “And the blue dress.” His new favorite. He was getting reminiscent lately. Of the night he first had you. In a blue dress just like it.

It would be in the evening, buzzing with wine that you’d fall into old memories. As you watch the other girls bought for the evening flit about while you watched from afar like their own bawd. An artifact is what you became. A whore only touched by one.

…

“Did you always want to fight for your country?” You asked him. The blushing boy, who really was not yet a man. He was too kind for this place. In that instant in the kitchen of your Ma’s home you wondered what life would be like in that moment. If you’d met this son of a wealthy aristocrat as the daughter of one. How he would court you and beg for your hand.

Would he write you poetry? Recite it to you as you walked about in the garden with your chaperone? Would he be asking your father for your hand? And what of the wedding? Would it be like you read in your books on romance and love?

“It’s my obligation,” He shakes his head, picking at the peach pit laid between you. “My father says it will perhaps give me more courage and strength.” While tall, he was thin and gangly. Nervous and unsure. “And on my return I will take over for my family,” A shrug, “Start one of my own perhaps.” It’s to be expected.

“In the country?” You ask him. He sung you a melody of his family’s country estate. The lush foliage and homey cottage that he’d spent most of his youth in, only brought to the city for schooling and now, his stint in the military. “It sounds beautiful.” But not meant for you. Not as bad as you would want it.

“Have you ever been to the country?” You step away to pour more wine, for both you and him. A gentle buzz.

“No.” You laugh, “I’ve never been anywhere outside of London.” You sip from your cup.

“Would you like to?” He’s so naïve and as you look at him incredulously, he seems confused.

“That’s not exactly in the cards for me Steve.” The chair creaks beneath you as you sit back down. His fingers close to brushing yours on the table. You watch him think for a moment, unanswering.

“If you could do anything,” He starts, “If you could be anyone and live any life… what would you do? Who would you be?” His fingers brush yours, a heat on your cheeks.

“I—” You shake your head, “I don’t know.” You’d imagined things of course. As you just did in an alternative life where you would be the wife of a wealthy man in a house you’d get to make yours. But it was never really like that right? A woman couldn’t own property. Even the use of her body was sold in different ways. Sometimes for silks, sometimes for love. Or the imitation of it.

“You’d never thought of it?” The tip of his finger brushed against your skin. He seemed to remember himself and pulled his hands back. “You’d never thought about if you’d been dealt a better hand?” You make the move, capturing his hand in yours. His skin smooth and soft. The tale of a boy who’d never had to do hard work in his life.

“You’d never thought about if you’d been dealt a worse one?” Your thumb smoothed over the back of his hand. He gives you a sad smile.

“You deserve better than this.” A sad laugh,

“You don’t know anything about me.” He leans forward, a soft squeeze on your hand. He licks his lips before saying,

“But I want to.” His eyes searching yours, “I want to know everything about you.”

…

“Lay off the drink.” A harsh squeeze to your side. A tug on your skirt as Pierce’s hot breath reaches your ear. “I can’t have you embarrass me as a lush.” His hand meeting the back of your neck and gripping hard. “Go and socialize.” A harsh push on the back of your neck and forcing you from the corner where you’d buried yourself in your wine.

So you made your rounds. A smile on your face and a drink partially empty in your hand that you never replenished. Putting on a show for the man you knew staring you down from across the room while you charmed his guests.

Men he worked with whose hands wandered, but never strayed too far lest they’d face the wrath of your jealous master. A playful jibe and banter that was practiced and well meaning, never too much of an overstep. Always superficial and always on the surface. Waiting to be called on by your master to appease whomever he was trying to impress.

Working your rounds back to him, charming and entertaining he lay his hand out, two fingers crooking at you. You take his hand as he drags you from the sitting room and out back, girls milling about with men, walking around the gardens and a small group smoking a cigar in the courtyard. A group of men seemingly just arrived, Pierce needing a fashionable jewel on his arm to show a display of his status.

You could have died. Right then and there as you met the gaze you’d dreamt about for nearly a decade. He’d changed, but you assume, so did you. That tall and lanky boy, you could still taste the peach on his lips. Sweet and sticky fingers, unsure and shaking. His shoulders broad and chest muscled, his face full. Your breath caught as his tongue wet his lips, still pink and full. Just as it had been before when you had tugged it between your teeth. 

“Captain Rogers,” Pierce’s hand out to shake, “Glad to see you healthy and back from the front.” A smile, the way he smiled. Side of his mouth endearing. It made your legs shake.

“Glad to be back.” The shake was firm, you could tell, “And who might this enchantress be?” Pierce’s feathers standing tall, a stiff peacock of pride. Steve. His hand grasps yours. Rough and weathered. A kiss to the back of your hand.

“Y/N Parker.” Pierce’s hand met the back of your neck, “I’m sure you’ve heard of the Parkers.”

…

He tasted of the peach he’d stolen. His lips soft and wet against yours. The sweet stickiness of it making you dizzy. It started soft. Ever so soft. Your elbows on the table as you leaned over towards him and met his lips once, twice, and then when his fingers cupped your cheek they melded together and took the breath from your lungs.

Your hand gripped his tightly, dragging him from the table and slipped to the room behind the stairs. Your room.

“Steve.” You sigh, his kiss making your brain swim in your thoughts, you shouldn’t be doing this. “She’s taking bids for me.” Your forehead against his as your back meets the door. “For my virginity.” His brow pulled in concern, his hands cup your jaw, thumbs brushing your cheeks. “But I want to choose.” You watch him swallow, his voice unsure and shaking,

“Are you sure about this?” You weren’t, you were sure your Ma would be furious, but maybe she wouldn’t need to know. Maybe she wouldn’t find out.

“Are you?” His lips meet yours again, gentle, slow and when you part, you turn, the buttons on your back nervously plucked from their holes. The heavy fabric shifted off your body to fall down off your hips. His hands rest on the stiff corset around your waist as you turn back to face him, shifting his jacket off and tossing it to the floor. Fingers plucking at his breeches as his fingers find the ribbon holding your corset together and slipping it loose.

You’re finally able to really breathe as your hands work on the laces, the bones of the corset peeling from your skin as you’re left in your shift.

Steve’s hands shake as his breeches fall to the floor. His boots tossed off and he’s left in his drawers standing across from you in the lamp light. You could see the hard length of him pressing against the fabric and it makes you shiver. A step towards the bed, his hands found your hips again, capturing your lips as his hands massaged the tender skin, your slip falling from your body to pool on the floor.

He fell to his knees before you, and you’d never felt so powerful. His lips pressing to the red markings on your belly. A soothe for the dig and restriction of your breath for the sake of beauty. A silent worship. His eyes on yours as his lips make their way to your sternum pressing between your breasts. A gentle lead to the bed. His drawers gone and a heat growing between your thighs at the sight of his firm pink cock pointed up at his belly button against a dark blond patch of hair.

“Are you sure about this?” He asks again, finding his place between your thighs. The length of him pressed against your wet cunt. You part your thighs wider, knees cradling his sides as you pressed your lips to his in assurance. Your hand dipping between your bodies to grab him, hot in your hand, and press the tip of him to your entrance.

“I’m sure.” A slow thrust of his hips. It was a strange sensation, different from the curious exploration of your fingers. A mutual gasp as he seats himself fully, a burning stretch. Your hands gripping his shoulders. He dips his mouth down to yours, a soft comforting kiss. A gasp as his hips move back to thrust again.

“Are you okay?” It wasn’t what you expected. Not in the least. He came quickly, as virgins do and he brought his lips to yours before cleaning the cum from your thighs. It wasn’t some big miraculous moment. And you didn’t feel horribly changed by it, “I’m sorry,” He whispers next to you. You lay facing him in the sheets. “I know sex isn’t terribly wonderful for women… at least not the first time. My friend… James, he says… that it takes time and practice to have sex be enjoyable for a woman.”

“Is that why you came here?” His lips pressed to the inside of your wrist.

“I didn’t want to come here at all, honestly.” His fingers were sticky as one traced your bottom lip, “But I’m happy I did.” He sighs, pulling you closer to him, the heat of his body warming you from the chill of the room. “I wish I could take you away from here.” He whispers against your lips, “I wish I could be yours, and you mine.”

…

Steve lets out a laugh, nervous, “I may have heard word of them.” Peirce’s hand tightened on your neck, a silent order to not speak unless spoken to.

“This is Mary Parker’s only daughter, a rare jem and the crown jewel to be held above all.” His other hand tilting your chin towards him. Steve’s face betrays no emotion, shifting into a smile as Peirce meets his eyes again.

“Simply stunning.” Steve agrees, making your heart race.

It’d been so long you didn’t know what to do or say. So you did nothing. And stupid with drink you distanced yourself from him almost immediately. But his eyes you could still feel on you as you walked with Pierce so he could introduce you to a General, and a man named Quill who just came into property in the states.

More wine. And maybe he won’t be able to perform later. The kitchen familiar and dark, a bottle plucked from the counter to refill his glass. The hulking figure in the doorway giving you pause. Your breath catches in your throat. Wine bottle grasped in both hands. He looks as though he’s searching for the words to say, his mouth parted and eyes looking upon you with the boyish innocence they had before.

It bubbled from your throat first, “You never came back for me.” An accusation that comes out more aggressive than you meant it to be. He steps into the light and you take him in tip to toe.

Maybe his father was right to send him off to war. The thin lanky boy that left you came back a broad shouldered and well-shaped man. But it was still him in the way he looked down at his shoes and then back at you. Like he had ten years prior. Bashful. Ashamed.

“I hadn’t been able to come back for anything until now.” You shake your head, sighing and go to move around him,

“Maybe you shouldn’t have come back at all.” His hand shoots out to grab your arm as you pass and you flinch from the action. A stunned reflex he lets go, immediately.

“Y/N—” The anger was bubbling up. Maybe from the wine, maybe from where you’d buried it long ago, but you couldn’t help it.

“My Master needs me.” Leaving him in the doorway and walking back to Pierce whose relaxed posture made you aware that he was almost there. Drunk enough to stumble into his own bed whereas you could sleep alone in yours. A rare blessing in this life.

…

“When I get back from war,” A whisper between your thighs, “I’ll come back for you.” The flat of his tongue in your cunt. A soft whimpered moan of sensation not before felt by you. Those measured means towards ecstasy. His fingers laced in yours as he worked to please you. The boy who’d just became a man, who’d just made you a woman.

As you meet your end he presses those sweet pink lips up your body, to meet your mouth, “Do you promise you’ll come back for me?” His fingers tracing your cheeks, eyes betraying love.

“I promise.” You’d been naïve. Of course, you’d been naïve. When your Ma had come to wake you the next morning and found you with that boy in bed, you’d been flogged for it. A weeping,

“How could you do this?” Her fingers hard on your chin. A curse at Steve, “You will tell no one of this.” And the blushing bumbling boy said,

“I would never.” He hadn’t even been gone a week when Pierce put his bid in for you. Nothing to turn your nose up at. A startling 400 pounds a year salary. One hundred up front. And a pension of such should he tire of you. If he ever tired of you. That first night as you lay under him you thought of your soldier boy, off to war with the promise of a return.

It was in your dreams and hopes, your prayers at night. But as each year passed it grew more and more distant in your mind. Your soldier boy wasn’t returning for you.

And you’d felt a fool.


	2. two

The rowhome squeezed tightly between others just like it, sat silent in the early morning hours where most would be beginning their days. Men stepping out onto the street, carriages waiting, or maybe a conversational stroll to their office. Women enjoying the early morning air, crisp and a little damp, but cooler than it would be later as the sun reached its peak and their breath would be stolen by the damp heat.

Houses would start bustling with activity. Maids cleaning and preparing the day’s meals. Baking the day’s bread. Their children would be up and ready for tutoring or screaming over an unshared doll. Fresh linens being placed on beds and chamber pots emptied. In Alexander Pierce’s home it was much different.

The maid still worked, the bread still baked, the chamber pots still emptied. But the rest of the house, it was silent. You hadn’t the energy to get out of bed.

Not today.

Today the walls, a powder blue and gold, were far more interesting than any other social thing you could possibly do. How could you ever get out of bed when Steve was any number of feet away? You’d desperately wanted to see him. But you couldn’t face him.

Not today.

You head was a little foggy from the wine the night before, flinching in the sun as you first opened your eyes, rolling onto your back and stretching out feeling your bones crack and your muscles burn as you arched your back and stretched your legs out beneath your sheets.

Pierce would be gone by now. Far gone at work. He’d leave tonight to go to his country estate, see his wife. You could go out tomorrow, tomorrow would work far better.

You sat in your shift and stockings on your bed. Picking at the plate of meat, cheese, and fruit that had been brought to you. The cup of tea hardly sipped. He was home.

After ten years Steve was home. And you hadn’t even let him speak to you. Not as badly as you wanted him to. As you walked back into the well-lit parlor room with that bottle of wine, you wanted him to grab you. You wanted him to pull you back into the kitchen and kiss you. Apologize. Say that the war kept him away. That you could leave tonight. A whisper against your lips about the English countryside and a carriage waiting.

But that wasn’t your life.

This was. You finger digging into the side of half of the exotic mango Pierce had been so pleased to bring to you. “A sweet and succulent taste, like no other.” He charmed, “Just like you.”

You had money.

You had your own money in a world where no woman could own property. Where no woman could decide anything for their own. As a child you belong to your father. As an adult you belong to your husband. And as a harlot you belong to your master.

The sticky mango was under your fingernails. Sitting back against the headboard as you cleaned them with your mouth you try to forget about the fuzzy peach that Steve dug his fingernails into in the kitchen of your Ma’s house. How you watched the juice drip over his hand. The stickiness on his lips and fingers.

A rough sigh, hitting your head against the wall. Maybe you did need to get out of this house.

No one would look twice, for you’re not a noblewoman, of you pinning your own hair. An easy soft pink dress, thin gold thread. You’d maybe run into your Ma. Maybe run into Peter. If you could manage it.

Peirce’s watchdog at the door. He was the first hurdle. A grim man with a strong jaw and a crooked nose. He would nip at your heels and shepherd you where Pierce wanted. Keep you from exiting when Pierce wouldn’t grant it for you. His leash was tight, but yours was even tighter.

It’s how Pierce kept control.

It’s funny how that this money was supposed to give you power. When Pierce tired of you that you would still get your salary. But it sat unspent in a bank account only he had access to, “You’ll get it when I’m done with you.” He would say. But when would that be? It’d been ten years, you’d hoped he would find himself someone younger, but he liked the practice he put into you, “You’re just the way I want you.”

So, you were stuck.

“Where do you think you’re going?” As if it were a joke. You attempt to walk by him, and he steps before you.

“I’m going for a walk.” He barks a laugh. It is a joke.

“Pierce doesn’t want you to leave the house today.” His arms crossing over his chest. “He wants you to be here when he gets home.”

“And I will be.” You aim to walk around, but his arm shoots out and grips yours tightly, “Brock.”

“Y/N.” A smirk. You wanted to slap him.

“Let go of me.” He shakes his head,

“You’re not leaving.” He liked this. This little bit of power that he finds in telling you no. Like a surrogate Master of the house. When he was simply an employee, just like you, except his work was done with his fists and not on his back. 

“I said I would be back when he gets home,” You attempt to pull your arm from his grip, “Let me leave.”

“I’ll just have to come with you then.”

Brock stayed a step behind, keeping the hair on the back of your neck standing up in wariness and fear. But he wouldn’t do anything out here. Not with all these people. Pierce didn’t like getting his hands dirty, and while the business man ran a prosperous front, good money made real honest on the backs of slaves in various plantations over the America’s, he was a brute of a business man with gambling debts and a monopoly over the racing of horses. It made him impenetrable.

It gave him the means to afford your extravagant employ. The bank records he would wave over your head just out of reach. Brock was his executioner. You’d seen things. Happenings you weren’t supposed to see. Brock’s bloodied fists giving way to someone’s jaw. A man with an uncontrollable vice whose wants outweighed his means. Money. Owed in full. Or else.

Always,

Or else.

It was a truly beautiful day. Tepid but sunny. A little damp, but when was London not? You’d had your route memorized. With the hope that your Ma would be out today. It had been made clear you weren’t allowed back there. Pierce had told you countless times that you didn’t belong there anymore, and you weren’t allowed back. Your feet hadn’t trod on the worn cobblestones of the London underbelly in a long time. You hardly thought now if you were to return that you’d even recognize it.

There was a street, straddling both worlds that allowed you to dip yourself into it. The careful steps of your feet leading you towards it with a prayer that your Ma would be there, taking a slow walk in effort to perhaps see you on these odd moments you’d be able to break out.

Your heart picks up pace as you see her. The curl of her brown hair now streaked in grey. Her fingers fumbling with fruit from a cart, bartering for price. It brought you an instant streak of joy, something hard searched for. Her eyes flickering up to yours with the feel of your gaze.

You remember for a moment how it feels to be held by her. And you wish whole heartedly to have that feeling again. A quick trip across the street and her basket of fruit forgotten as you walk into her arms. A sigh of relief from both. A full rush of happiness feeling yourself wrapped in her, just like you used to be.

“Oh my sweet girl.” You couldn’t cry out here, not in front of these people. But it was shelved and saved for later.

“Ma.” Brock made a gruff noise of disapproval from behind you. Pierce never said anything explicit about you not talking to your family, only that you weren’t allowed back onto those filthy streets. So, Brock would give you time here, before instructing you to move on with the guise that you’d need to get back to the house to await Pierce’s stabbing cock before he goes to the country to be with his frigid wife.

His wife… you couldn’t blame the woman. You’d met her a couple times over the years. You could see how she had been beautiful once. There were portraits in the house an example of her grace and virtue. A soft smile painted on her lips. She was a shell of that now, having buried four children and three in adulthood. She told you once, in a moment of weakness, that she thanks God for taking him from her bed. Drunk with wine and speaking to you plainly, you’d only been with him for a few months then, “I pray for a whore’s sin, but thank God or the blessings they provide.”

“I’ve missed you,” Your Ma, brushing the curls back from your face and taking a shifting glance behind you and her smile dropping a fraction, “Your Pa misses you too.” Guilt, more for the lack of the relationship between you than the position that you’re stuck in. “How are you feeling?” You smile,

“I’m doing just fine Ma,” You squeeze the hands now held in yours, “How’s Peter?” You could hear Brock’s shoe begin to tap against the stone. A clear sign of his impatience.

“He’s grown nearly a foot.” Your Ma laughs, “He’s just about as tall as Pa now… he asks about you all the time.” It breaks your heart to remember the child you left. Your baby brother, five years old when you left to go into Pierce’s employ. How he used to help you put ribbons in your hair and how you would sneak him cakes when Ma wasn’t around. Nearly a man now.

“Maybe next time—”

“We have to go.” Brock gripped your arm, none to gently, “We don’t have time for this, we need to keep moving or you’re going to get us both into trouble.” You look apologetically back on your Ma, her casting a steady glare at his back. You really hated this guy.

A comfortable distance away you rip your arm from his grip, “I rarely get to see her.” Clutching a fist by your side.

“You’re not supposed to see her anyway,” He scoffs, “Be thankful I even let you stop.” You had to try to drown the feelings welling in your chest. They would do no good to you here. A steady breath in and breath out. Save it for later.

A lot of women were out today it seemed. Pushing prams, walking with friends. A few more in your same position taking a stroll as the heat reached its peak of the day. Tolerable, but not comfortable. Peirce would be home soon to take a late lunch or early dinner before beginning the journey out to his country estate. The clock was ticking on.

A surprise on your steps, awaiting your return.

“Captain Steve Rogers,” Brock goes to stand in front of you, greeting the man and holding his hand out for a shake, “Alexander has told me a lot about you.” A tight smile,

“I know I’m a little early—” Brock stops him,

“He should be home shortly; you’re welcome to wait for him in the parlor.” Walking past the large man and to the front door. You give Steve a look of confusion before he stands to the side,

“After you.” You grasp your skirt, lifting it slightly to walk up the stairs, feeling him hot on your back and following you into the home. Brock looks past you and at the man behind you,

“I’ll have the maid prepare some tea, or if you would rather wine or brandy—” His eyes flit to you, “Go to your room, I’m sure he’ll call you when he needs you.” An order. A quiet sigh, you begin up the stairs, turning as you reach the top to look back at Steve, paused in the doorway before the room. You meet his eyes and you watch as his tongue wets his bottom lip before he disappears into the parlor.

Steve must be important for Rumlow to act that way. Fumbling over his words like a child. The excitement you could see in his face when he saw Steve standing on the doorstep. What had Steve been doing all these years? Something that made him a very important man it seemed.

But whatever business he had here with Pierce was no good. It sat bubbling in your belly, you’d realized you hadn’t really eaten that day, but now you didn’t know if you could. You wondered if Steve was working for Pierce in any way. Is that why he was at that party last night? Or was this just coincidence. You wouldn’t let the thought cross your mind that he would be here for you. You refused to even think it. Because he wasn’t.

Pierce invited him here.

That you realized as he joined the two of you for an early dinner. Surprising, seeing as usually before he leaves, Pierce would rut himself against you endlessly until he was spent. But he was getting older now, his cock wasn’t as hard anymore. Less virile.

“I’ve discussed with Barnes about a possible merger between us.” Over his soup, “Once I return, we could have a bit more of a professional meeting—” What did Steve do exactly? His Father was an aristocrat, or at least that’s what you remember him saying. You’d always been under the impression that Steve just had money, as a lot of them do, but Pierce was giving more of an air of nobility. He’d requested roasted duck for supper after all.

You’d avoided his eyes as you dined, being more of a pretty object placed at the table than a conversationalist as much as Steve’s eyes wandered across to yours. The careful means to avoid as Pierce’s fist found your skirt under the table. A promise for after the guest leaves.

“What do you think of the America’s splitting from us?” Steve asked, directing the question at you. It had been an ongoing conversation on the backdrop of current politics. The American Revolution freshly won.

Regardless Pierce’s business wouldn’t suffer. Those slaves he made money on filtered the funds back to him on an endless stream no matter who the country belonged to, “They should have been grateful for what they’ve got.” It was a clear energy that made many in Pierce’s friend group that the Americans were nothing but thieves and members of their own community exiled for crimes. Indentured servants sent to pay back their time.

“No decorum for war.” Pierce continues, whining because they didn’t follow the rules.

“They had no representation here,” As you cut a carrot in two, “It seems only fair to want a say in how much you should be giving to your patriarch, I’m sure if King James were to have given them choice they wouldn’t have wanted to revolutionize.” Pierce laughed,

“The majority of them are criminals or slaves,” His hand squeezes your knee, too tight to be affection, “They’re lucky for what we gave them.” You cast a sigh and a soft smile to him in apology as he let go of your knee. And then a brush under the table. Not from Pierce, but from the man across from you. A carried-on conversation as his ankle pressed against yours. You pull your legs back, out of reach. He doesn’t blink.

He would drift into your thoughts later. Long after Pierce was gone and you were alone in your bed, fingers finding their way between your thighs. A shaky orgasm panted into the sheets.

Life without Pierce around was significantly better than life with him around, granted Brock followed you around wherever you went, but without being able to displease his master your leash was loosened considerably.

“Captain Rogers.” Brock’s childish admiration. The familiar figure on your doorstep for the second time in two days. “You should know that Sir Pierce is gone.” This time as you stepped from your home and not to it. Steve sent cautionary smile at the man behind you,

“Yes, I just assumed since the lady was going to be lonely this week while her master is gone, I offered to keep her some company.” Surely a lie. Pierce was a jealous beast after all, and he wouldn’t willingly agree to let you keep company with someone younger and more abled than he. But Brock was simple, and this man before you had a lot of power. He wouldn’t question it.

“Of course.” A reply as Brock shut the door behind him. Steve turned to face the two of you fully.

“If you wouldn’t mind.” His arm held out to you. “I shall return her in time for supper.” Brock’s brow furrowed,

“I don’t think Sir Pierce would—”

“Then you can take that up with him on his return.” This wasn’t the shy boy you’d met years ago; this man was firm and unyielding. His lie was to go unquestioned, his jaw clenched as he had a silent argument with Brock. Challenge my word, he was saying, and surely there would be consequences.

To be fair, you were torn about wanting to go with him and wanting to walk right back into the house. You didn’t want to do this, truly, but at the same time… You watched his tongue wet his bottom lip and thrum in your core at the sight. A brief memory of peaches. His arm offered to you again, “She’ll return for supper.” And Brock let you go.

A glance back towards him as he glared at Steve’s back.

Brock just let you go.

So how powerful was Steve, really?


	3. three

Steve had changed a great deal physically in the last ten years. His broad shoulders filled in with firm muscle. His waist thickened yet still tapered. The chest you lay your head upon nearly a decade ago, you could trace his ribs with your fingers. Freckled and waifish. But the man beside you had filled out tremendously. Not only in his body, but in his mind. The firmness in which he told Brock that he was not to be contested gave you pause.

You were sure in Pierce’s conversations over the last ten years you would have heard about the Roger’s family at least once, but it hadn’t been brought up. Maybe perhaps not in front of you. Was Steve into dirty dealings or was his family just nobility?

“I must say,” You begin, “Either you’re more powerful than I previously thought, which would mean you’ve lied to me.” As the two of you stepped into the park, “Or you’ve recently come into a position that Sir Pierce values greatly and he’s seeking to have you join his merry band of thieves, criminals, and moral bandits.”

A crack of laughter from his chest, “You’ve definitely gotten a league more brazen since our last meeting.” Met with a glare from you. The laughter still in his eyes, “I may have omitted certain details of my lineage the last we met, but the war also put me in a higher ranked position in itself.” So both were true.

“Why are you here?” It wasn’t an inappropriate question and you’re sure he knew you were going to ask it. “Why now? Why after all this time?” His hand tightening on your arm, not in a threatening way, but an attention-grabbing way. It smarted the bruise left by Pierce the night before. A sucked in breath of pain on your part and his hand falls to his stomach.

“You know why.” A roll of your eyes as you continue your walk, leaving him a step behind. He meets your step and continues, casting a friendly greeting to two men who pass. A cordial, I know you but don’t have the time of day to stop, kind of greeting.

“I’m just a fool then.” You sigh, watching as he holds his arm back out for you to take. A courtesy.

“You’ve never been a fool.” His arm is warm under your touch. It felt so new, yet so familiar. Your mind drifting back to the way he held you that night. Your fingers tracing the skin from freckle to freckle and the warmth from his chest. For a moment you wonder what it would be like now. Only for a moment.

“You’ve made me into one.” A bite, a nip at his heels really. His hand covers yours.

“I never meant to.”

“But you did.” You had to let a deep breath from your chest, you desperately wanted to remove your corset. A little too tight today it seemed. A little too constricting. The summer heat was coming in. The least favorite time of year for women. The days would soon become too much for the current stroll. Your chain a little tighter to the home not more than a mere block behind you.

“How can I find your forgiveness?” Truthfully you just missed his voice. You’d forgotten how it sounds. The way it made you feel. Almost like you’d invented him all on your own. You shake your head, not answering him. “Pierce might gift you to me if I ask.” Your steps halt, and you look at the hopeful expression on his face.

“So then you may become my master?” His brow pulling in confusion. “So that I may be chained to your bed and not his? You’ve gotten further in age, but not in your naivety. You ask me to be your mistress?” You pull yourself from him and fist the front of your dress. “You are truly daft aren’t you?” His jaw set, “I will not be your whore.” A spit, and you start making your way back to the house.

“It was not my intention—”

“But you spoke it anyway.” Moving out of reach for his extended arm. “I think you should go Captain Rogers.” Your breath coming out in short pants in the rising heat, heart rate rising. The door was getting closer and closer with every step. You were almost home and able to loosen this godforsaken thing and maybe have a good cry and a nap.

“Y/N, please.” His hand wraps around your arm and pulls you close to him garnering a couple of stares from those nearby. “Listen to me.” The force of it. The anger makes you flinch. His other hand comes up soft, barely a brush against your cheek, his grip loosening. “Y/N…”

“Please.” You were scared. You were no stranger to a man’s ire. And the sweet boy you’d met before was now a man himself. You didn’t know him in the first place, now he was a stranger. You needed to go. You needed to be alone. “Please, let me go.” His hand releases you, and you see the sorrowful look on his face. Some abject horror masked in sadness.

You grip the railing to go up the steps and disappear into the house. Out of the direct sun it’s much cooler, but still unbearably hot. The stumble up to your room and your fingers ripped at the expensive silk of your dress, pulling at the laces to untie it and finally being able to breath as you rip the corset from your chest. Discarded on the floor you trip into the bed, crawling up the side to bury your face in the pillow, makeup be damned. And you cry.

Pierce being gone was usually a great relief. But this felt worse than that.

You hear your door open and you already know who it is. You couldn’t be bothered.

“Get out Brock.” Muffled into the pillow.

“What did the Captain talk to you about?” Straight and to the point. You hear his boots settle heavily in the doorway, scuffed against the floor.

“Brock, get out of my room.” With a little more force. His footsteps closer, hands gripping the blanket and yanking it from your body.

“You look like shit.” He leans over on the bed, gripping your chin in his hand and pulling your face from the pillow, your eyes red. “What did he talk to you about?” You smack his arm, pulling away from him.

“Nothing.” Hand reaching for the blanket now spilled onto the floor. “Get out.” His hand shoots out and grips your jaw even harder, pulling you back and slamming you down on the bed, twisting your knee in the process.

“You don’t tell me to get out.” Spittle on your face as your hands wrap around his wrist, trying to pull him off. His other hand pinning your arms to your chest. “What did he say to you?” Tears pooling in the corners of your eyes, as he straddles your body, preventing you from kicking your legs.

“Nothing,” You whimper, wincing as the grip on your jaw tightens, “He just made pleasantries.” His hand slips down to your throat. “Brock, he didn’t say anything to me.”

“You’re lying.” Pressure on your throat. His face red and the vein in his neck prominent. “How do you know him?” You choke as his hand presses down on your throat, a struggle to breathe as his thighs clamp around yours, keeping you complete still.

“Brock.” Barely choked from your throat. “I… can’t…” He seems to remember himself, loosening his grip on you. And you turn your head to cough, gasping for air. Your fist meeting his chest weakly. His hand finds your hair, turning your face back to his as he tries to grip your wrists back in his large palm.

“How do you know him?” Brock had never been more violent with you before. Yeah, he would get a little handsy. A grope here, a rough grip of your arm to drag you around here or there. But never this. You wouldn’t be able to leave the house for the rest of the week at least.

“His battalion came into our house once,” You swallow roughly, throat sore, “A long time ago, he talked to me and I played piano for them.” Not technically a lie. “Nothing more.”

“So what did you really talk about?” His thumb moved to your bottom lip, pulling down to reveal your teeth.

“He just asked me how long I’ve been in Alexander’s employ.” You shake your head, feeling your tears run hot into your hair. “He just remembered that I was being bid for.” He didn’t believe you; you could see it in his eyes.

“I know Pierce did not send him here.” His jaw tight, thumb pressing against your teeth, “Open.” Prying open your jaw to press his thumb on your tongue. “And I will choose to ignore the fact that you continue to lie to me, because the truth will always come to the surface.” A whimper as he pressed your arms to your chest even harder, restricting your breath. “And you, little whore, will buy my silence.” A cry leaving your throat as he pressed against your tongue even harder, “Now suck.”

Later, your curiosity to see what you looked like in the mirror was damaging. You stand in front of the floor length propped against the wall next to the fireplace in your room. Your bare body, your eyes just about swollen shut from crying. You could see the bruises on your jaw and neck, your forearms and wrists. The bruising against your hips and knees. Crying in the dark, you walk back to your bed and slip yourself under the covers. Staring blankly at the gold pattern in the wallpaper until you could find sleep.

The next day found Captain Rogers back on the doorstep. And you hiding around the corner with your cup of tea and picked at breakfast. You heard Brock answer the door, and you heard Steve on the other side.

“Captain Rogers?” His voice ever pleasant to a man who could murder him and get away from it by the way Brock kissed his ass. “Three times this week, you seem very eager about the proposition from Sir Pierce.”

“I’m still going over it with my associates.” You were sure he was smiling, real charming and fake.

“If you’re here for Y/N Parker, she’s indisposed at the moment and is not taking visitors.” Clipped and short this time. Like his word was law.

“Actually, I’ve come to talk to you.” You cup clinked heavily against the plate. Leaning towards the door further to listen. “Would you mind?” You grew anxious in your seat, in nothing more than your night dress and stockings. Indecent for Brock let alone any company. But you couldn’t be fucked to put on your petticoats, especially when you were as sore as you are.

“Come in.” The half toast and jam you’d eaten stirred in your stomach as you watch Brock lead the broad-shouldered man into the parlor. Unable to see more than his back. Your heart pounding. Brock appeared in the doorway, “Try to go upstairs without being seen.” An order. A chill down your spine. You slip from the room and start up the stairs. A creak on the floorboards as Brock begins his walk back into the parlor, you risk a glance back over your shoulder to see Steve’s face staring at you from the position he’d taken on the couch, the clench of his jaw as the parlor doors shut.

Your heart continued to race long after your bedroom door was shut, and you sunk back down into your sheets. You wondered what they were talking about downstairs. What Steve was talking to Brock about knowing he’s seen the bruises. He must have.

You didn’t know how long Steve was downstairs. You could hear the front door open and shut again. You could hear the boots coming up the stairs. Your door opening.

“I’m going out tonight.” His steady foot falls across the floor. You feel the bed dip behind you. His arm bracing itself next to your head, nose burying itself in your hair, “You are not to leave this house, do you understand?” You nod, you feel his lips brush against you and it makes your skin crawl. A push off the mattress and you hear him leave the room. Burying your face in your pillow, you willed yourself to fall back asleep. Stomach rolling with acid.

It was dark when you’d woken up later. Hungry and groggy. You slip from bed and light the lamps in the room. You squat in front of the fireplace, piling in some new wood, and setting it to light. A chill in the room.

The stairs creak as you make your way downstairs, hopeful to grab some spiced meat, cheese and bread before returning to your room. Maybe a cup of tea too you figure, setting the kettle on the stove to boil.

Usually, when Pierce was home, there’d be the maid to make you tea. Serve you dinner. But with it just being you and Brock and no master she would come do her basic services and then go home for the night.

You didn’t mind all in all. Your Ma had always made you self-sufficient enough to know how to cook simply and be overall well rounded. And it was nice to pretend like you lived alone. Like this was your own home and you could close your eyes and pretend you were living in the countryside. The smell of the grass and flowers. A garden you could grow. You could almost feel the soft breeze. How the sun would be so warm on your skin. Not having to worry about staying as pale as possible for the upper class.

You startle as the kettle starts to whistle. Broken out of your reverie to glance down at the dark stovetop. Unbothered to light more than a candle or two to put together your meal. The leaves added to the tea you leave it to steep, cutting chunks of cheese and the salted meat scraps.

“Do you want to pour an extra cup?” A gasp, you nearly nick your finger at the sound and turning is when you see him.

“Steve?” His eyes scanned you from tip to toe. You were suddenly very self-conscious. The bruising was surely noticeable. You’d been avoiding mirrors. You watch his fists clench at his sides. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see you.” You realized you were still gripping the knife, your hand loosening on it as you let it rest on the cutting board. “What did he do to you?” You shake your head, backing as far into the counter as you could.

“Steve how did you—”

“I invited Brock to a gathering hosted by a friend of mine…” His voice made you weak when he said, “Y/N… what did he do to you?” He invited Brock out to get him to leave the house, knowing you’d be alone. The aftereffects of him seeing you like this earlier. You could only imagine how badly you truly looked to him.

“This is… indecent.” You move to your left, towards the door. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Y/N…” You look at him, his arm outstretched towards you, “Come and sit down, talk to me.” The vein in his neck was prominent and the anger he held under the surface was almost frightening. But the way his voice cracked when he said, “Please.” It made you sit at the table.

He moved behind you to grab the food you’d been preparing and returned with the kettle and cups. In the dim light of the kitchen you could almost see him how he was. The shadows making him look thinner, gaunt as he sat himself across from you. Your hands shook while he poured you tea and he gestured to the food in front of you. “Eat.” Not an order, more like… begging.

“When Brock comes back—”

“He won’t be back tonight.” Steve shook his head softly as you picked at a cube of cheese. “James will make sure of that.” You sigh, digging your nail into the cheese as he takes a sip of his tea. “Y/N…” Your eyes meet his over the light of the candle between you. “Just ask,” He shakes his head, “And he will never come back.”

Your throat tightens and you shake your head, sitting against the back of the chair, “Steve.”

“If I needn’t much tact I would have killed him in the parlor this morning.” He bit in anger. “Is this something he normally does while his master is away?” Gesturing towards you.

You shake your head, “No.” You clear your throat, “No, he doesn’t usually…” You furrow your brow looking down at the table between you. At his hands.

Those soft hands you remember on your body, the gentle touch of a boy exploring a woman for the first time. Those hands were not the same as the calloused hands on the table. The scars from where you could see his knuckles had been split, over and over.

“Steve,” Your eyes drift up from those hands to his serious face, jaw still clenched in anger, “Tell me. Now.” You swallow, “Who are you exactly?”


	4. four

His jaw was more defined. His brows fuller. Hair longer than you could remember it being. His eyes were almost dark in this lighting. Not their usual blue, but something more serious and hardened. His bottom lip was just as pink and full as before, you vaguely remember how it felt between your teeth. It was silent. Tea growing cold between you as the question hung in the air.

He swallowed, taking a sip of his tea. The sound of the cup hitting the saucer before he started, “I wasn’t lying to you.”

“But you omitted facts.” You cross your arms, “You withheld information.” He shakes his head,

“When was I supposed to tell you?” He reasons, “We had one night, I wasn’t too keen on explaining my family history.” No, he’d been far more concerned with making up for his shortcomings, having you writhe on this tongue before he hardened again. And you met twice more that night. Whispers of dreams that could never be shared between you, and a stupid promise that should have never been made.

“So explain.” He leans forward resting his arms on the table, eyes scanning the wood and he says,

“Where to start?” He shakes his head, eyes meeting yours from beneath his lashes, “My parents…”

They’re Sara and Joseph Rogers. Old money from being a staunchly military family. He shrugs, “Every member of my family has fought for the British Military.” But not so much lately. They were full of Barons and Marquess. “I’m to take the title of Lord soon.” He was going to sit in the House of Peers and with his familial status and his own Lordship…

“You’d control half of Britain.” You sit back against your chair, still fingering the piece of cheese, thinking.

“And my family the other half.” They were steps away from the palace. “And when my father dies…” He would be less than fifteen seats from the throne itself.

“So Pierce…” He shrugs,

“Wants to get in my good graces so that when it happens…”

“You’ll let him keep doing his villainous deeds, he would have a greater barrier of protection.” Steve nods.

Politics were a mess of titles and owned land. Who has the bigger property? Who has the more lavish surroundings? Who can spread their coin around? And if the gold fastenings on his shirt were anything to go by, the foregone wig and the cleanliness of him, he could do whatever he wants. Even have Brock murdered tonight, without anyone batting an eyelash.

“I don’t want to leave you here.” He admits honestly. His hand reaches across the table to still yours. “I said I would come back to you and I did.” Warm and calloused. It gave you a small bit of comfort.

“We were children.” You could feel it bubbling in your chest. The emotion. You weren’t going to cry. “We didn’t know what promise we were making.”

“I knew.” His hand tightened slightly on yours. “Y/N…” You pull away. “The only reason I didn’t come back for you more quickly was for my term at war… I’ve been working—”

“For what?” You tug on your teeth out of nerves, “It’s been almost ten years, Steve.” He sighs and looks at you with reverence.

“I was working… to first free the Americans.” Against his King’s army. “They deserved their freedom, and everyone knows it.” He softly grabs your hand again, “After that I joined a group…” Shaking his head, “I had to build these foundations before I came for you again.” He looked hopeful almost, wanting. His tongue comes and wets his bottom lip.

“Even if you did take me from here, what am I to be?” A harsh laugh, “You’ll marry.” The corners of his mouth twitched but did not give into a frown. “You’ll marry and you’ll have children and a legacy… and I will just be your whore to visit and buy pretty jewels for.” You pull away from him, scooting your chair back and standing from the table, scrubbing your face with your hands, you turn from him.

“I don’t want anyone but you.” He claims. You scoff, turning to look at him. And in the shadows of his face you can see that boy now.

“Then you obviously haven’t grown as much as I thought.” You shake your head, the tears betraying you by slipping down your cheeks, “You need to marry, and you can not marry a whore.” He steps from the table, rounding it to meet you, softly grabbing your hands which still frame your face and taking them in his own.

“Y/N…” His lips meeting your right wrist and then your left. “I can do whatever I want.” You roll your eyes,

“And be ruined for it.” He takes a step closer, his chest brushing against yours and his forehead meets yours and he’s close, so close.

“Y/N…” His mouth meets yours and you’re unable to say no. You’re unable to do anything but melt against him. His arm wraps around your waist and pulls you harder against him as you part and meet again. Your hand gripping his bicep as your ass meets the hard edge of the table. He parts from you with heavy breath on your lips, those pink lips now red and flushed. “I would gladly be ruined if it meant I were to spend the rest of my life next to you.”

A gasp of a pant as his hands cradle your face, his cheeks flushed against his pale skin. You tremble under his gaze.

“There’s just one thing we need to do first.” He presses his lips to yours again, “And I need you to trust me.” His thumb brushing against your bottom lip before bringing you back to him in a slow and savory way, “I will never let anything bad happen to you again.”

“You can’t promise that.” His thumbs pressing into your cheeks as he presses his hips against yours. You can feel that hard familiar length of him. Your knees locking him in against you as you relish in that old feeling.

Maybe this was a mistake. How could you have let him get so close so quickly? You gave in at the press of his lips. The feeling it bred in your body like a drug you couldn’t help but find yourself addicted to. The memory pales against the real thing. The way it makes your skin shiver and your fingers tremble where they lay on his arms. He could tell you to do anything right now and you’d do exactly as he asked. A dangerous thing when it comes to your profession.

Those years of building up a guard and becoming objective and distanced. You couldn’t care less if Pierce wanted another whore for the night, something he did occasionally, or if he found his way to you. You didn’t care to be left alone for days on end in this big house with only books and a morning and evening stroll to take your time. But in this moment, you feel like you might die if he left you.

You might die if he were to let you go.

He meets your lips again, tongue brushing yours, a steady joining and parting. Soft and wet.

“I need you to help me bury Pierce.” His touch so warm and comforting, “Help me take him down and then,” A press of his forehead against yours, “And then I’ll take you to the country estate, just like I promised.”

“Is that all you want from me?” He shakes his head,

“I want everything that has to do with you.” His thumb soft across your cheek, “We need to secure your money first, everything you’re owed.” You whimper against him as his hips press further into yours, “And then you can help me take this bastard down.” A press of his lips to your throat, to where the neckline of your nightdress met your skin. And your heart raced as he pressed his mouth to the bruises on your skin. His hands gentle against your tender flesh as he sunk to his knees before you. “You had bewitched me the moment I saw you,” A gentle kiss to the skin of your thigh, “I would do anything for you.” His hands pressing your thighs further apart to settle his head between them. “Anything.”

He laid a plan out between your thighs, hand gripping your hips steady on his face as his tongue worked you to falling apart. Your fingers twisted in his hair as he let you benefit from the friction on your sex. Nipples hard beneath your shift, arching up against him in gasps and moans as he brought you to a trembling end. Mouth and tongue pressing sloppily against your thighs and hips. 

“When Pierce returns,” A whisper against your lips, “We will begin.”

With him gone and the house empty you grew clearer. Less foggy and drunk with his presence. But he said Brock wouldn’t be back for the rest of the night, right?

You powder makeup on in the mirror, covering up the bruises best you could. Maybe you could risk going to see your Ma.

The single opportunity presented itself and you would be a fool not to take it. And your Ma would know what to do. She’d be able to clear your head about this.

You did what you could to hide Brock’s handiwork, but your Ma was sure to spot a mark or two. The trepidation in that was drowned by the excitement to see your Pa and Peter again. Your steps quick and heart beginning to flutter as the prim and proper clean homes turned into the thick dark wood and the volume of the town louder than the sleepy homes you’d just left behind.

Drunks in the street and a loud row in a pub, passed by as you continued to your destination. The vibrant noise and the sounds of people stuffed in alleys sampling the wares on the streets.

You saw your Pa first. His hair greyer than you remember. Chatting outside with a man you didn’t recognize, just outside of the house you’d grown up in. He must have felt you coming. His eyes drifting over to you and smile splits his lips. The emotions you’d felt all day spilling over onto your cheeks as you run into his open arms.

A hug tight enough to squeeze the breath from you. It pushes out a sob. His hand on the back of your head as he held you to him and you felt like a child again. Scared of a storm. Weeping into his shoulder as he soothes the cracks of thunder that woke you from your bed.

“My sweet girl.” He pulls back to look at your face and presses a kiss to your forehead. “I’ve missed you so.” His hand firm in yours, “Come.” A tip of his head to the man he was talking to before your approach and he brought you into the house. The noise of creaking beds drowned out by the twinkle of keys at the piano you’d not touched in years. Your Ma was found in the parlor. And your eyes immediately went to the tall boy behind the piano. Peter.

Your heart lept in your chest as he ran to you, wrapping you in his arms. “Y/N, what are you doing here?” Happy and eager.

“I was left alone for a night,” You smile at him, looking over his shoulder at your Ma. “I have until morning.” You laugh, stepping back from Peter. “You weren’t lying Ma,” You grin at him, “You’ve grown quite a bit.”

“There’s so much I want to talk to you about.” He says, “I just don’t know where to start.” You brush a hand across his cheek and in his face, you could see the little boy who pulled on your skirt begging for sweets. The little boy who cuddled you in your bed after falling asleep reading. And you felt your heart full for the first time in a while.

“Let her breathe,” Your Ma held her hand out to you, “Are you hungry love?” And you realized you were starving. You’d forgotten the last time you had stew. Rich people didn’t eat the scraps from their table all blended together like this. They hadn’t the need to.

It was food of the poor. The indentured. And it gave you more comfort than you could put into words. A hunk of crusty bread on the side and you were being spoiled.

Your Ma’s finger gripped your chin and turned your face in the soft candlelight. “When will he let you go.” She sighs, “I thought you’d be living free by now.” With a 400 pound a year pension and living the way you’d like. “I’m so sorry love.” You pull from her, scraping your bread over the sides of the bowl.

“I need to ask you something, Ma.” Bread swallowed and belly full, you gaze across the table at her, much like the way you looked at Steve earlier. “Do you remember Steve?” Her shoulders visibly tense, of course she did.

“He swore to me he wouldn’t talk.” Her voice tight, “Did he say something to Sir Pierce?”

“No.” You shake your head, sipping your wine, “No, he didn’t.” A swallow, “But he’s come back… and he wants to take me with him.” Confusion clear on her face.

“Take you with him where?” Her fingers rapping on the table, nervous. “You’re under contract.” You tug on your lip,

“Yes,” Your Pa and Peter enter the room. Parlor cleaned up and,

“Shut the door.” Your Ma orders, blocking this conversation from the rest of the house. You look at your Pa and Peter, before directing your attention back to your mother.

“This can’t leave this room.” Your voice sterner than you thought it would be. “Do you understand?”

It was going to be complicated. You’d told Steve earlier, “I don’t want to be your whore.” Your lips both swollen from kissing, “I have my own money. I want my own home and my own things.” Soft and emotional, “I don’t want to belong to anyone.” A nod, a prayer on his lips and he said,

“I’ll do whatever you ask of me.”

You begin to explain, “Lord Steve Rogers,” Your Mother’s brow lifts, “He takes his title this week. He’s going to help me get out of my contract and help me keep my money after.”

“For what?” Your Ma shrugs, “What does he want in return.”

“What does he have to gain from it.” Your father adds. You lick your lips.

“He’s trying to take down Pierce.” You admit, “Get rid of his villainy over the city.” The murdered in the streets. The vile and wretched dirty dealings with him giving out loans and taking exceeded interest. Drowning families and destroying homes.

“And he wants you to help him.” Peter finishes.

“Yeah,” You give him a half smile, “I’ll be helping him.”

“Absolutely not.” A pound of her hand on the table and your Ma steps from it. “Peirce would see you hanged for betraying him and I refuse.”

“But Ma—”

“Your Ma’s right, sweetheart.” A sigh from your old Dad. “It’s a large risk to take, and no one knows if this would actually work.” It wasn’t a lie. If Pierce finds that you’re working against him you’d soon find your hands around your throat and your body tossed away like garbage. And maybe you were being foolish. Maybe this was a mistake.

“I could help.” Peter offers. “I mean… Steve.”

“No.” Firm and absolute.

“Listen to me,” You start, “Pierce would rather see me die than leave his side regardless of whether or not I help Lord Rogers or not. He’s shown that to me time and time again. Without fail.” Your voice rising in volume, “I’m not dumb enough to get swept away in this game, but it needs to be played, Ma.” If you were ever going to survive this.

“Send him here.” An order from your Pa. “Let me talk to him and we shall go from there, but your Ma and I want no word of either of you pursuing this.” His voice turning softer, “I want you back, not gone for good, do you understand me?” You nod.

“I understand.”


End file.
